Watchers

By M. B. Heywood

Beings. The aimless complaint came unbidden to Egwae’s idling mind.

She withdrew her hand from a withering vine of translucent flame and closed her eyes. A deep breath filled her with alpine air. Earthly. Abrasive. Traces of her father’s realm emanated from the wall of vibrant, unruly foliage that loomed over her kneeling form, its fragrance intermingled with the crude, complicated odors of the vale.

As she exhaled, the earthier smells dissipated. Distractions subsided. Irritation at the mundane feel of linen on flesh abated. Only that lovely aroma of home remained to soothe her consciousness.

Egwae rose and smoothed her pleated tunic. She returned her focus to the verdant wall and the fiery haze of pale yellow light enveloping it. Wall and shield together obstructed all but the midday glare of the winter sky above. Those subtly curved barriers stretched nearly the length of the vale, from eastern heights to precipitous western descent.

She continued her careful survey of the light-shield. Snow crunched softly underfoot as she took gliding rightward paces. With each measured step, she breathed in memories of the heaven-realm. The shield diffused the garden’s scent to a tantalizing, yet comforting, effect. The one pleasant aspect of being warden here.

Egwae stooped beside a tendril of light as long as her forearm. Her fingers glowed warmly as they coaxed it back into the shield. It hesitated; she prodded it with flicks of clear flame.

Any enjoyment derived from my drudgery is incidental. I serve the Wright, not myself. Nor human folk, who disappoint. The wanderer—the marked one, gone to dust now—had not always disappointed. She would rather tend the garden perimeter for a millennium than another human for a seven-day.

My kin are not so different, else Kel would not have abandoned me.

The loose thread had reabsorbed fully into the haze; the shield was mended. For a fleeting instant, Egwae felt satisfaction. She resumed her circuit.

A sudden recollection chilled the spirit coursing through her being. I fixed the same snarl yesterday. That exact spot. Her repair should have lasted thirty cycles of the sun.

Egwae whirled about and scanned the valley rim. Betwixt snow-laden forevergreens fifty paces distant, the air shimmered like sunbeams off ice. Serpent-spawn.

With a flourish of her hands, she produced a greatsword of swirling white and orange flame. She swung it overhead and snapped a billowing fire-cloud heavenward from the blade tip. Too late for help, mayhap.

Livyat’s minion already bounded toward her. This two-legged mockery of the Wright’s children had a broad tail and dagger-like foreclaws. Glistening like scaly, sweaty ice, it mimicked the mottled white hues of its environs—all except the green that tinged its gills, eyes, nose slits, and face-splitting mouth.

Twenty paces. She held her fiery blade aloft and memorized the rhythm of the creature’s movements.

Ten paces. She fastened her gaze on those serpentine eyes.

Three paces. Livyat’s servant gave a rasping snarl. Egwae dropped her sword to a low guard. Anticipating the creature’s feint, she swept up, into a lefthand aurochs’ horn. It leapt just as she cut down to the right. Her weapon sliced the unnatural creature clean through, from head to tail. Its icy hide offered no resistance. Like parting mist.

In a hissing shower of vapor and smoke, the carcass melted into the snow. Egwae held her stance and scanned for the next wave of the ambush.

The trees and meadows were still.

Surely Livyat sent more than one.

She envisioned the garden gate, a narrow break in the foliage facing west. Spears of translucent flame extended skyward to bar entry. Even to me. Beyond, tree-like summer shrubs lined a red-earth path. At the far end, a pair of fruiting trees flanked the heaven-bridge. The back door to home.

She pictured herself at the gate. As her world dissolved into blurry rainbows, the snow underfoot spoke in a gravelly hiss. An adversary proposes an exchange. Accept it.

Quick as light, she stood outside the gate. No slithering chaos-minions awaited. Instead, she turned to discover a dozen of her white-mantled siblings. Egwae greeted fox-eyed Kel tersely. “Good to find you standing sentinel, brother.” For once. “Though this is not where I requested aid.”

Kel’s gray-green eyes shone. “I trust you managed.” Egwae returned a cold stare.

“We bring relief of a different kind.” He gestured to the others, observing in hooded silence. “We would have you join us. The Wright commissioned a company of our kin to keep closer watch over the earthly folk. Relinquish this post. Become one of my captains.”

Egwae suppressed astonishment. This recognition was due her. Yet, to quit my duties… for humans’ sake?

“First, however,” Kel added breezily, “you must open this gate. So we can better secure the bridge against Livyat.”

An exchange proposed. But Kel, an adversary? No—it was folly to trust Livyat’s message.

“The Wright knows you capable of more than guarding this shrine to human frailty,” Kel pressed.

Is there harm in keeping an eye on him? For the Wright.

Burning blade in hand, she walked to the gate. Betwixt two sapling-thick fire spears, she made deliberate cuts in the shield. Luminous fibers fell away in a gauzy sheet and disintegrated midair. The heavenly balm wafting from a new, being-sized portal eased the disquiet in Egwae’s soul.

She stepped aside and extinguished her sword. Kel strode up, triumphant and smug as he entered the garden.

The moment Kel’s heel found purchase on ruddy earth, the shield contracted. Although he halted, the shield and the garden wall retreated steadily. Soon only a dome of hazy light remained over the two trees and the bridge. Then they blinked out of existence.

Egwae and her kin faced an unblemished, snowy expanse. Kel stamped his boot; the others murmured in wonder and dismay. Relief flooded Egwae. Thank the Wright. The garden was now beyond reach of Livyat, Kel, and earthly folk alike. “Very well, brother. I shall join your watchers.” And watch you closely.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M. B. Heywood is a wandering storyteller and scribe for hire, hailing from a little ways south of the Mason-Dixon. Heywood is the author of antediluvian fantasy fiction in the world of the Vaporous Realms, including the novella Dustsong: Len the Wanderer. He loves his Lord, his wife and youngins, their kith and kin, coffee and pie, epic fantasy, historical anecdotes, miniature models, and in spite of himself, the cat.

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